Unless he’d found his older daughter. Somehow, somewhere? Only she could have told him about the English officer who had walked away. And her memory might have been unreliable, even as it was convincing.

  But there were hundreds—thousands—of English officers in France. How could the girl’s father have learned it was Lawrence?

  The body of Sergeant Henshaw was still there. The father had only to look at his insignia to find out which regiment the officer had come from. Even so, it must have taken years, and an iron determination to track him down. And then, finally, Lawrence had come back to Paris.

  Was the beating given Lawrence Minton revenge for a family’s murder?

  I’d been facing the window, blindly staring at the display of baby clothes and gifts for the newborn, an array of tiny shoes and blankets and caps and bibs.

  And then something distracted me, and I looked up to see a man’s face reflected in the glass, just over my left shoulder. He was staring back at me as he was crossing from the far side of the street.

  It was the vegetable vendor. I was sure of it. Only he was wearing a dark suit, the flash of a gold chain across his middle. And in that brief glimpse, I remembered where I’d seen him before. On the train that took me to St. Ives. Surely that was where—!

  How many other times had he been there, and I hadn’t realized he was following me?

  We stared at each other for several seconds, and I saw again the eyes over the top of the scarf with which he’d tried to conceal his face. They had been light too, I remembered that now, they were like holes in the darkness because they were so light.

  I whirled, preparing to confront him, already starting toward him.

  I stopped abruptly as an omnibus came rattling down the wet and muddy street. I hadn’t even heard it coming, I was concentrating so hard on that man. It noisily passed me by, a blur of windows and faces, cutting off my view of him as it passed.

  When it was gone, he was nowhere to be seen.

  I searched.

  The shops, in the nearest café, in doorways, everywhere, but I had no luck. He had disappeared. As if I had imagined him. But he’d been there. Somehow he must have used the omnibus to conceal his movements—he could even have walked along beside it until he was well away, and I would never have known.

  So clever . . .

  I stood by the shop window again, trying to see where he might have come from. But it was a street of cafés and shops, it could have been any of them. I looked up at the windows above the shops. Surely there were rooms to let there? But I couldn’t find a doorway with stairs to them.

  He knew me. He’d recognized me in the poor streets around Holy Angels, and he’d recognized me today. It would have been easy. My coat and my cap were clearly distinctive, even with the umbrella over my head. When had he begun to follow me? When I called at Madame Periard’s house? Had he lost Lawrence after that night on the bridge, and had to search again for him? Only, I’d unwittingly led this man to his victim.

  But who was he? That tragic family’s husband and father?

  I was walking back to the Moreau house, when Captain Jackson caught up with me.

  “What brings you out in such weather?” he asked chattily. “Errands for the patient?”

  “I needed to think, and the house was feeling as if it was closing in on me,” I said, then instantly regretted telling him that much.

  But he didn’t ask why. He just matched his longer stride to my shorter one, and kept pace with me. He was too tall for the umbrella to cover him, but the broad-brim hat he wore seemed to be impervious to the damp drizzle.

  “Does it rain in New Mexico?” I asked, quickly changing the subject.

  “It does, ma’am. Sometimes in buckets. But it’s mostly dry country.”

  Thinking in terms of a dry English summer, I said, “What do your cattle eat?”

  “They manage quite well. The Navajo, now, they’re smart enough to run sheep. But we raise horses too.”

  “What is a Navajo?”

  “It’s a native tribe that lives in the countryside. Nice people. Quiet.”

  We walked on for several streets, and then he said, “You looked more than a little upset when I saw you. Anything I can do to help?”

  “I just saw the vegetable vendor a bit ago, crossing the street by that shop where you saw me. He recognized me. And I recognized him.”

  “In this part of the city? Selling vegetables?” He turned to look at me, incredulous.

  I suddenly realized that I’d been so intent on the man’s face that I had paid no attention to his clothing. I tried to bring back the image from the reflection. “I—he was wearing a dark suit of clothes. Respectable. Not at all like the vegetable vendor. The only reason I noticed him was his reflection in the window glass, just over my shoulder. I realized I knew who he was.”

  “And who is he?”

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “But I’d seen him before, you see. On a train. I’m quite sure of that now. In a ward full of wounded, one quickly learns faces. Not just their number.”

  “And you don’t have any idea where he might have gone?”

  I told him about the omnibus.

  “That was clever of him,” he commented thoughtfully.

  “Why would he have been on the train, then where Lawrence was attacked, and then here, staring at me?” We had nearly reached the Moreau door.

  “You can’t be sure he was staring. Can you?”

  “It’s—suspicious,” I said. I really didn’t know what else to call it. “Unlikely that the same man was in my vicinity on three separate occasions. And wearing such different clothing each time.” And how many more had there been? Occasions when he was there and I was distracted, and never noticed him.

  “Still, you must be very careful, and stay where there are other people around. I am not happy about the way you walk all over the city, Bess.”

  Now that Lawrence had been found, and it appeared that he was going to recover, I needn’t roam all over the city of Paris. I needed to find my father, all the same, and I didn’t know if he was in England or France, at the moment.

  The captain doffed his hat as usual, pausing at the steps of the house. Courtesy demanded that I ask him in for tea or coffee, a sherry. I was about to do that as I opened the door and stepped into the hall.

  My boot stopped short, bumping against something, and I put out a hand to catch myself. I’d been looking at the Captain, but now I looked down.

  There was a collection of luggage just at the door, and in the distance, the raised voices of people happy to see each other.

  Oh, dear.

  Matron had arrived.

  Chapter 14

  AFTER A HASTY good-bye to the Captain, explaining who had arrived, I left my umbrella and coat in the hall and followed the sound of voices to the sitting room where Dr. and Madame Moreau were standing, greeting Matron. It was apparent that she had only just arrived, for she was removing her coat and talking as she did.

  “It wasn’t too bad. An easy crossing, and then the train. Very different from the war. I hardly recognized Paris. Coming from the station—”

  She broke off as I came to stand in the doorway.

  “Sister Crawford,” she said, frowning. Beyond her, out of her line of sight, I could see Dr. Moreau shaking his head slightly, as if he expected me to start telling her immediately about her son’s problems.

  Smiling, I said, “I’m glad you’ve come. Lieutenant Minton will be happy to see you.” Even as I said the words, I wondered how true they were.

  “Why didn’t you send for me sooner?” she asked, as if this had been on her mind since she’d got the letter from Dr. Moreau.

  “Medical decisions had to be made. It was possible he was going to die before you could even leave London. The first order of business was to save his life. It was touch-and-go, even so.”

  Behind her, a look of relief spread across the doctor’s face.

  She turned to him. “I’m a nurse, Michel, I could have taken turns nursing Lawrence.”

  “All is well, Helena. Be glad that he’s safe. Please, sit down and let me fetch you a glass of wine. It will refresh you, and you’ll be prepared for what you see. Remembering that he is healing. Despite how he may look to you.”

  “I’d rather go straight up.”

  But Dr. Moreau had already turned to the little drinks table and was pouring glasses of wine. “You have just arrived after a long journey. Five minutes more, and you’ll be ready to start nursing Lawrence.” He brought forward two glasses, which he gave to Matron and then to his wife, finally pouring his and mine.

  As a guest in their house, she could hardly refuse the wine, but she sat on the edge of her chair as he lifted his glass and said, “To Lawrence, and a full recovery.”

  After sipping mine to seal the toast, I set the wine aside. “Perhaps I ought to prepare him. We hadn’t told him you were coming because we were afraid to raise his hopes too soon.”

  Before anyone could object, I smiled and got myself quickly out of the sitting room. Then I all but ran up the stairs, not knowing how long Matron could be persuaded to be polite.

  Opening the door of the sickroom, I nodded to the nurse. “You might wish to go down to the kitchen for a bit. There are guests in the sitting room. I’ll keep an eye on the patient.”

  She nodded and left.

  Lawrence was lying in the bed, staring at the ceiling.

  I didn’t know what to say to him. Not after last night. But it had to be done, and so I walked forward, taking up his hand and feeling for a pulse. It was quiet, regular.

  “You have a visitor,” I said cheerfully.

  “If it’s Marina, I don’t wish to see her.”

  “Actually, it’s your mother.”

  “Damn it,” he said, jerking his hand free. “Why did you send for her? You knew that was the last thing I needed. Or wanted.”

  “She has come because Dr. Moreau sent for her. It’s what doctors do when there is an illness. They send for the patient’s family. You can be nasty to her, of course, but the nicer you are, the sooner she will feel she can safely leave you.”

  I didn’t think he was listening. But after a moment he said, “You don’t know her. She’ll want to stay, take care of me. I can’t bear it.”

  “She’s still with the Queen Alexandra’s. I expect she only has a few days’ leave.”

  “What have you told her?” he demanded suspiciously.

  “Nothing except that you had us quite worried in the beginning, but you are slowly healing.”

  “Is that the truth? That’s what you told her?”

  “You’ll be seeing for yourself soon enough. Why should I lie?”

  He lay back, closed his eyes, and said, “I’d never have let you bring me here if I’d even guessed this would happen.”

  “Well,” I said, striving to sound practical, “for one thing, you were barely conscious. Dr. Moreau had to make a medical decision without consulting you. Of course, you could have stayed in that ward. But if you’d managed to live, most likely you’d have been crippled for life. They didn’t have time to give you proper care. There were too many patients as it was.”

  “So you say.” He didn’t open his eyes.

  “Surely you remember something about that ward.”

  “It’s foggy. Bits and pieces.”

  “If you begin by telling her you’d rather die than live, she will believe you, and she won’t let you out of her sight.”

  I could hear footsteps now on the stairs. Dr. Moreau was bringing Helena up. They hadn’t lingered over their wine.

  I moved away from the bed, saying softly, “She doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”

  There was a tap at the door, it opened, and Matron came in, her face schooled not to show what she expected to see. But I watched her flinch a little as she took in her son’s condition, and she turned quickly to Dr. Moreau, as if in understanding, before smiling and saying, “Hallo, love. They told me I would be shocked, but you look far better than I’d expected. I’m so glad. Dr. Moreau has taken great care of you.”

  I slipped past her as she walked toward the bed, carefully coming to the side where he could use his arm.

  And as I went out the door, closing it quietly behind me, I heard him say gruffly, “Hallo, Mother. I’m glad you’ve come.”

  I sat in my room until time for our supper. I heard the day nurse make her farewells, and the cot being made up for his mother. Lawrence would hate that, but there was nothing he could do about it. When I went down to the dining room, Dr. Moreau was preoccupied and Madame was trying to persuade him all was well. I was glad to escape to my room again.

  I was in bed and nearly asleep when there was a tap at my door. Pulling on my robe, I went to answer it, and found Matron standing there, still fully dressed in her uniform.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  I could hardly say no. “Please, do. The fire is nearly out, I hope it isn’t too chilly in here.”

  She came in, looking around, then took one of the chairs by the hearth. “Who did this to my son? Did he tell you?”

  “I’ve asked. He doesn’t remember much about it. We think he was lured into an alley, and then set upon.”

  “And what have the police done about it?”

  “What can they do? They had no witnesses, and no evidence. Paris is full of strangers, Matron. Anything could happen here. I myself was set upon one evening. I had a lucky escape. The police interviewed me, and I’ve heard nothing more from them.”

  “It isn’t England,” she said with a sigh.

  I said tentatively, “Something happened in the war. Something to do with his concussion in 1914. I don’t think he remembered it for a very long time, but it came back to him here in Paris. Suddenly and without warning. He has to heal from that as well as the blows in that alley. It will take some time.”

  “Do you know what that was?” she asked, intent now.

  “I—he hasn’t really told anyone as far as I know. Not wittingly. I wouldn’t press. Let him tell you in his own good time.”

  “Then how do you know so much?”

  “Bits and pieces, put together. He was delirious in the beginning.”

  “Thank you for telling me.” Then she asked what had really brought her here. “Why didn’t you contact me sooner?”

  “Truthfully? I didn’t know where he was in the beginning. And I didn’t want to report him as missing. Neither London nor the Regiment would take that lightly. He should have been here, at the conference. He even has papers in his possession from various meetings. I felt it was much better to find him myself. I was hoping to save his career.”

  “That’s very kind of you. But I should have been told.”

  And I saw that nothing I could say would change her mind. The laudanum, the brandy, his disappearance, and then the beating—not even the skills of a Matron in the Queen Alexandra’s would have saved him from these things. And I could hardly tell her that perhaps the beating that she found so horrible had actually saved his life by putting him in hospital before he could do anything rash. Let Dr. Moreau set the past in perspective. If Matron even gave him a chance before whisking the patient back to England.

  She rose, and I stood as well. “I have all the documents you gave me in London. I’d like to return them to you now. I’ve spent money searching for him. But I’ve kept a record of every penny or sou. It’s all there.” I turned to my desk, picking up the folder.

  Matron took it with a nod. “Good night, Sister Crawford.”

  “Good night, Matron.”

  And she was gone.

  I sat there by the dying fire for another hour, rethinking our conversation and wondering what I could have—should have—done differently.

  In the post the next morning was a card from Marina inviting Dr. and Madame Moreau to a dinner given by the school to parents of the students.

  He looked at it, passed it to his wife, and she read it aloud.

  “I think we ought to attend,” he said. “It was kind of her to include us.”

  “Yes. Perhaps Helena will feel like joining us, if she’s still here.”

  “If she hasn’t brought anything suitable, perhaps you could take her to buy something here in Paris.”

  “Of course, I’ll speak to her later about it.”

  Nothing was said about my attending. I was beginning to think it would be best for me to find an excuse to return to London. Since my father knew Matron from India, I hoped he would join us for dinner one night and provide that excuse. If he was still in Paris.

  After breakfast, Dr. Moreau took me off to his surgery. There were no patients at this hour, and he said as we sat down in his private office, “I have been thinking about what was said in the two sessions of hypnotism. Lawrence is clearly blaming himself for what happened to that family on the retreat from Mons.”

  “Yes. I think we’ve got to the bottom of what haunts him.”

  “It wasn’t his fault. But his concussion made it impossible for him to deal with what happened. Was that Angel real? Do you know?”

  “There’s been some discussion about that. Whether it was true or contrived by the newspapers. But the men I’ve spoken to really believe it.”

  “And shocking as it must have been, he was not responsible for what happened to the young woman who was drowned.”

  I wasn’t sure just where he was taking this.

  “Who was that man who killed her? Do you have any idea?” he went on.

  “The only person it could possibly be was the father of the family. Looking for revenge.” Another reason for me to leave.

  Shocked, he exclaimed, “He wouldn’t have drowned his own daughter.”

  “I don’t believe she was his daughter—just a poor young woman he dragged into this, to drive Lawrence mad. A sham. Somehow the girl was tricked into helping the man, not knowing she would die.” I shook my head. “If the death of that family affected Lawrence as much as it did, imagine what it must have done to the father’s mind. I’m beginning to wonder if the daughter survived. Surely she could have told her father the truth about the Lieutenant.”

  “He’s a monster. And he must be found.”